All My Words
by DarkBlaze14
Summary: Blaze is a stressed writer living in stressful times. Her words are powerful, but they can't erase her past experiences. They can, however, share how she was broken. (Silvaze / real world AU / sister fic to "All My Colors")
1. Chapter 1

Hello reader,

My name is Blaze. Blaze the Cat. I live in a small one-bedroom apartment in New York City, about a ten-minute walk away from Manhattan. I cannot tell you why I'm chronicling my story; hopefully, you will find use in what I have to say, or learn from my mistakes. The world is a scary place these days; perhaps I can be a voice of comfort for you. That is my passion - to impact the lives of others through my writing.

Writing is something that I never believed I would enjoy. In fact, I hated it for quite a while, especially when it was required for school. For the longest time, actually, my mother had to force me to write essays. She would sit down with me, make me outline what I wanted to say in my paper, and check every little detail to make sure my writing made sense. That would go on for hours. She errs on the side of directness in her writing, so that is where my roots lie. My mother often speaks of her childhood dream to write a novel, and I wish she would. I owe much of my writing ability to her. I owe almost every good aspect of my life to her, actually.

I didn't start writing for leisure until I was fourteen, just as a coping mechanism. I won't throw all my baggage at your feet, reader, but I have been through several horrid bouts of depression in my life. Writing allowed me to translate all my thoughts into words, and all my words helped me identify my thoughts. Because of that, I still believe writing to be the purest mutualistic relationship between oneself and one's mind.

As time went on, I became more creative. Instead of just listing all the words associated with my thoughts, I began integrating them into stories. At first, these stories were cute tales of romance. That was what I thought I longed for so desperately back then. I never finished any of those stories - I always shifted attention to another before finishing one - but that is where my passion for writing grew. All the voices in my head became characters, my life became a plot that I could control, and I became a new person. My eyes were opened to new books, and I read constantly, taking mental notes here and there on how to improve my writing.

Improve I did, as I still do every day. Around a year later, I began posting my stories online for others to read. I was given much encouragement, more than I could have ever imagined. That was one of the few times in my childhood that I can remember being genuinely happy. Perhaps I am hoping that, in writing and sharing this, I can relive some of those memories.

The decision to share my stories has been the defining moment of my life so far. From there, I began considering a career in writing, and that is where I find myself now. I attended a writing school in New York City on scholarship, graduated, and now I work as a junior writer for the Times. Of course, my dream is to continue to write fiction, but for now I live paycheck-to-paycheck with little free time. Enough about me, though. This isn't all about Blaze.

One of the most important things I've learned about writing - something that has taken me many, many years to learn - is that it doesn't matter who reads your writing. It doesn't matter how many people read your writing. Writing is an individual endeavor for individual people. It's one-on-one. When someone out there is internalizing what you've written, even if it is just one person, you've done your job. When each description strikes a reader's senses - when each word serves as a thin bristle on the grand paintbrush crafting your masterpiece - you've done your job well. The only one who can determine the value of a story is its author. It doesn't matter how many people experience your writing, be it twenty or twenty thousand, because they all experience it differently. Each interpretation is special, even if there is only one. Again, it took me many years to realize it, but that is the beauty of writing.

In that way, writing is unlike a painting. In any given story, readers see different backdrops, different characters, different shades of different colors, different motives; they see themselves. The most important part, however, is that readers don't see the world around them. Allow me to help you escape your troubles, reader. After all, I write to escape my own.

Just after that thought crosses my mind, the bright, bouncing ring of my phone alarm sounds. I am already dressed, though. I haven't been able to sleep much lately. I turn my phone over, silence it, and grab my bag for work. Perhaps some breakfast is in order first, though.

As I creep into the living room, I find an albino hedgehog asleep on the couch. This is my roommate, Silver. He is a freelance artist, an interesting personality, and my best friend since childhood. I won't go into the details of our relationship at the moment - just know it is very hard to share a small space. He has boiled my blood a few times lately.

I quickly scramble some eggs over the stove, and place some bread in the toaster. Don't let this fool you; I can only make eggs. It seems with any other dish I try to make, I set the fire alarm off. After the eggs are done, I scrape most of them onto a plate for Silver, and scarf down the rest. I'll leave the pan for Silver to clean up - he could actually be of use for once. Forgive me; I shouldn't say those things, but he is quite sporadic about cleaning.

In fact, I see a few articles of Silver's clothing strewn across the living room. A few socks, boxers, paint-stained jeans, his t-shirt in the floor - who does this? See, reader, you must be patient with me. My mood was already sour.

"Hey, wake up Picasso," I growl as I toss some of the loose clothes at his face. This is the first time I've spoken to Silver all week. "Would you please stop leaving your clothes everywhere? I'm getting tired of cleaning up after you."

That came out a tad colder than I had expected. It is true, though; he has to start keeping his space clean. I don't know if another person in the world could stand to live with him. He stays cooped up in the side-room all day working on art, and he still manages to get the living room dirty. I would be scared to know just how much trash is on the floor in that art room.

Suddenly, Silver yawns and rubs his eyes. I feel a current of guilt run through my chest, and before he can fully wake up, I dart out of the door with my bag. Oh, how I wish things could be different between us.

* * *

 **a/n: hey guys! this is just something i did the other day for fun, but i figured i'd post it for any of my followers who remember All My Colors. this is basically the first chapter of that fic, just re-written from blaze's perspective. as i was writing it, it was really interesting to think about how differently blaze might see the world, and how her topics of discussion might differ from silv's. if i made this into a full-length story, i doubt she would even talk about the same things - and if she did, she would obviously have different opinions.**

 **would people like to see more of this? i'm kinda searching for something to work on while royalty au continues in the background. so, i might consider making this story a full-on thing, or i might go back and re-start Saving Blaze (now that i've swallowed my pride). if y'all have any opinions on this - like if you wanna see this or Saving Blaze continued - let me know! thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

For a few moments, I consider turning around to apologize to Silver, but I'd rather not risk being late to work. I hurry out of our apartment building, and walk a few blocks before reaching the subway. I descend the stairs there, scan my card, walk through the turnstiles - just like any other day. It's become repetitive. The filthy clean scent of underground transportation has worn on me, it seems. These red-and-yellow tiles I walk on have faded in my mind, though I suppose they were always dull. I walk to where my train is scheduled to stop, and lean against a coarse column as I await my fate.

New York was once an exciting adventure for me. Every day it seemed I could find something new, something I had never seen before. I loved the sights and sounds and smells - even on my work commutes. This was a mystical land, and I was a wide-eyed outsider. After living here for so many years, though, that magic has faded. I can only sigh when I look around now, because I'm reminded of the eager girl I once was. Now, this is just a tired subway, and I'm a tired woman.

Suddenly, my train arrives, and I squeeze my way into the doors as others flood out. I take the nearest seat, stained yellow from years of wear, and finally I can be with my thoughts. That's enough of the real world for now, right?

Perhaps you are wondering why I have such a melancholy air about me, reader. I believe it is simply the curse of being a creator. You go through good patches, where you're creating and sharing actively. You feel great about your work, like nothing was ever wrong with it. Once you hit that high though, you start slipping into a state of discontent. Those highs never last for long, but the slide downward can take an eternity. That is where I find myself right now.

Of course, I speak not of my journalism. I view that as a separate entity to my creative works. My creative writing has taken a bit of neglect recently, and my lack of motivation has hindered my happiness. At least, I wish it were that simple.

Truthfully, I am the architect of my own demise. I always look for ways to improve my writing, and when I find them, I label my previous work as worthless. Therefore, every form of support I received on my previous work is also worthless at that point. That is what my brain tells me. If someone said they loved my work two years ago, and I have since realized all the storytelling mistakes I was making at that time, that comment is negated. The compliment is now a lie, because that work from two years ago could not possibly be good. Clearly, I have an unhealthy mindset. Do not adopt this for yourself, reader.

I believe my problem lies in the realm of good-versus-bad, if you will. When it comes to my work, I see no difference in being "almost good", "not great", "not amazing", and "bad". It's black-and-white for me: if my work is not incredible, it simply must be terrible. I warn you of this because I am afraid of what I might say down the line, reader. That is, if you choose to stay with me for that long.

This black-and-white perspective is, to put it politely, ridiculous. I know it is ridiculous. There is a spectrum when it comes to the quality of creative works. Of course, this spectrum has different extremes for everyone, but typically it ranges from "professional work" to "outright horrid". If you decide to rate your own work, reader, I implore you to use a spectrum.

In reality, this spectrum has very little room at its extremes, and a lot of space in the middle. As long as you believe in your own work, it isn't in the realm of outright horrid. Unless you are paid for your craft, you're not a professional. Therefore, most lie somewhere in the middle. That middle part is known as "the best it can be". And that's it; it's really that simple. If you fall in that category, your work is the best it can be, and that is quite good enough.

It took me a long time to realize that. Of course, I don't apply this spectrum to my own work, but I hope you will, reader. It is a healthy way of looking at things - not just with creative works, but with life as well. "The best it can be" is no worse than perfect, as long as your best is perfect to you. Your best should be perfect to you.

Yes, my unhappiness stems from my mindset. As long as I remain black-and-white, my work remains terrible, because I will always find errors in it. No one is perfect, after all. I am still learning to adopt the spectrum point of view.

In any event, it is imperative that you are kind to yourself, reader. You don't have to love your work all the time; not many of us do. Be kind to yourself though, because when you start actively searching for reasons to criticize yourself, you will only find unhappiness. Much of my teenage years was lost to depression because of this.

I should also clarify something. It is important to remember that when I say "depression", I have never been diagnosed with depression. I can only assume that the prolonged periods of sadness in my life have been rooted in that disorder. I have never been suicidal in the traditional sense, but often times when I go through one of these depressive episodes, I passively long for the end of my life. I would never put a gun to my head, but if a bus were headed my way, I might not be quick to dodge. I have been through numerous episodes like this, and many of them come from being discontent with my creative work. I hope you see how we've come full circle here.

When a creator dislikes their work, they feel useless. Why bother creating if your creations are bad? Why bother living if your purpose has been wasted? I ask myself these things a lot; perhaps you do too, reader. It is a curse. The only answer I can ever find is "because you want to", but that isn't comforting. If you lack confidence in your work, you don't want to create anymore anyway.

Instead, think of it this way: if you have a gift, it is meant to be shared. That's what gifts are for. Whether you're a writer, an artist, a singer, a dancer, a scientist, a chef - share your gift, reader. The world is not better off without your work. Creating something is special, no matter how "good" it is, because the world didn't have that creation before you made it happen. Your work is special, no matter what you do. Anyone who tells you otherwise does not have your best interests at heart, and you should never associate with someone like that.

I speak from experience, reader. I truly do. I have mulled on these thoughts ever since I began writing. Even if I don't always practice what I preach, you can believe what I say. I would have no reason to write this otherwise.

Suddenly, I hear that my stop is approaching. My eyes focus on my feet; it seems I never look outward when I have these bouts of thought. This has helped me realize the errors of my ways - surely I can view my work in a different light soon. I have to, yes? I'm afraid of what will happen if I continue to doubt myself so.

The train comes to a halt. I sigh, already longing for the ride back to the apartment.

* * *

 **ok, uh, wow? I'm honestly rlly surprised that y'all are so supportive of this idea. I figured everyone was tired of all my colors by now, like I was beating a dead horse by publishing this. but y'all seem to like it, so I'll roll with it! thanks so much to those of you who commented, you really made my week better when I posted the first chapter. you're the reason this story is continuing!**

 **now to respond to a few comments,**

 **LunarWolf0: nah, all characters in this story are still their respective species. blaze is a cat n silv's a hedgie, they're just living in new york!**

 **and guest: oh my god? u read amc EIGHT or NINE times? that's crazy... I thought it was a stretch to think a lot of ppl read through the whole thing even once. thank u so much for sharing that with me, it really made me feel better about what I've done ;-;**

 **thanks again to everyone who's shown support for this so far, I love you guys! and sorry for not updating sooner. the things talked about in this chapter are things I've really been struggling with recently, so I've been a lil demotivated. some of my art keeps getting super negative feedback whenever I post it, so that kinda... zapped me of all my drive to do anything, lol. I hate for that to affect what I produce for you guys on here, but I've really been trying hard to improve my art lately so I won't get bashed every fuckin time I post it somewhere lmao. hope you understand!**

 **also, a little tidbit: the second chapter of amc was titled "inside looking out", and blaze, in this chapter, is "outside looking in", if you will. what would the point of writing this be if I didn't do neat lil things like that?**

 **thanks for reading! on to the next chapter!**


	3. Chapter 3

I suppose I should fully explain my situation if I intend to continue this conversation with you, reader. My mom has been battling breast cancer for quite a while, and she is currently in her most grueling fight yet. She is laid up in a hospital bed right now, while I'm left to venture through this world alone. Oh, excuse me - I do have Silver. He's as detached from reality as I am, though. My mom has always been my rock.

I should go ahead and admit it: I'm not ready to grow up. I'm half way to my thirties, but I still feel like a teenager. I wasn't ready to graduate high school. I wasn't ready to graduate college, or live in my own apartment. I'm certainly not ready to lose my mother, but it seems like an ever-approaching reality. I suppose that's because it is.

That sounds odd, coming from someone who has lived in New York by herself for so many years. I can't even begin to describe how scary this experience has been. I made it through everything because of my mom, though. I've called her every night since the day I moved here. She means the absolute world to me, and I can't sleep knowing that she'll be gone soon. It doesn't seem real.

Make no mistake, reader. I'm not the type who needs a shoulder to cry on, my mother's tear-stained sleeve being the exception. I've bottled up my emotions for as long as I can remember. I've always dealt with my own demons, my own sorrows, my own problems. It's only recently that I've begun to talk about my experiences with others. I can't even say that it has helped much. It just gives me something to do.

Actually, I think talking about my sorrows has hurt me more than anything. Over time, it just reminds me how sad I am, even if it feels better in the moment to get everything off my chest. Given that, I will try my hardest to make this a positive experience for the both of us, reader.

I know I've spoken mostly to those of you who are creators thus far. I'm sorry if I've alienated anyone by doing so, but I feel that I can most relate to creators. All of my sadness is rooted in that curse, after all, as is the case for many. To those of you who are not creators, however, I maintain that you can take my words with you as well. Allow me to explain.

To relieve the creator's curse, one must develop self awareness. By that, I mean you have to realize how good you are at what you do. Even if you're not a creator, and you think you don't do anything, believe me when I say you do. In that sense, there are no "creators" and "non-creators" in life. You create by living, because to create is but to entertain an audience. Your audience is simply the people around you. If you write for them, draw for them, sing for them, tell them jokes, make them smile, make them think - you're a creator.

And you need to realize how good you are at doing those things. Now, here is where most people hit a wall: that realization should have nothing to do with others; it is entirely individual. If someone else is seemingly better than you at something, you can't let that factor into your self-awareness. Your self-awareness should be just that - an inventory of the self.

Do you know why this is possible, reader? It's because everyone is different. If you're an artist, there is no point in comparing your work to that of other artists. They would not, and could not, make the art you do. Your work is unique in that way, no matter what you make, because it was made by you. This can apply to anyone in any walk of life. That is the key to self-awareness, and thus lifting this curse that plagues us all.

I lean back in my chair, sitting at my cubicle of misery at work. Sorry, I promised to keep this positive. I meant my cubicle of despair.

It's no secret that I hate work. I've typed barely five-hundred words of a two-thousand word article, due tomorrow. Always something about this world we live in. Oh, how I would rather be writing my own world. That is possibly the thing that entices me most about writing - the opportunity to create my own reality. I can place my characters in a world; give them their own experiences, their own struggles. I can teach them lessons. I can string together beautiful sentences, create a masterpiece of my own - when I'm not putting myself down, that is. But with work, I have to keep to such a stringent format - it's down to a code, almost. It gives me no room to let my mind roam, or even give my own opinion on matters.

Yet, at the same time, those above me adore my writing for some reason. I'm like this paper's golden child. It's as if I'm a Princess enslaved by her royal status. I'm worked to death because I'm dependable. I'm shown off because others want to see me. I wish I could just disappear some days. All I want to do is see my mom.

I've already mentioned that writing has helped me through some low points in my life. However, it would be a travesty not to mention my mom in that same breath. Like I've already said, she has helped me tremendously since I moved to New York; had it not been for her, though, I doubt I would've even made it here. I've always been able to tell her anything. When I thought I was worthless, she showed me my value. When I would think of harming myself, she would calm me down. In my darkest moments, she was always my light. I love her to no end, and it pains me that I can't return the favor. No, it doesn't just pain me; it's killing me inside.

Hopefully now you understand another side of my mental state, reader. My mom is on her deathbed, and I can't be there for her because of this job. After all she has done for me, I'm not there to comfort her in her final months. Life takes from death as much as death takes from life. It makes my stomach churn.

I look at the clock on my monitor. Nearly lunchtime, and I've gotten nothing done. My heart is racing; my anxiety is through the roof. I run my sweat-drenched palms over my eyes and ears, silently begging for time to stop. It seems I'm always at the mercy of those unwilling to provide it.

* * *

 **hey guys, sorry this is such a late update. a lot of stuff went down over the past several months, and I ended up having to cut someone out of my life who inspired me to write a lot of all my colors. so I sorta lost motivation on this for a while. well, plus school started back, and I'm working on applying to grad school, and I'm also working on other fics... and yeah. hopefully I'll be able to work on this a little more moving forward, because now I think I have a lot more to say. thanks for reading, love y'all**


	4. Chapter 4

I find myself on the oh-so desired train back to my apartment. Only after another five brain-wracking hours at my desk, that is. I didn't get the chance to see my mom, but I called her on the way to the subway. Of course, she lied to me and said she was fine, but at least I was able to speak to her. I can only pray it isn't the last time.

Given my exhaustion, I can hardly afford to dwell on that somber thought. I haven't been sleeping well lately, as I've said, and my days aren't getting any longer. I think that's true for most of us. There aren't enough hours in the day to complete the tasks we're assigned. Sometimes I wonder whether that's a result of the world speeding up, or individuals slowing down. Perhaps we realize it's a futile fight, to try and get everything done, so instead we work toward the minimum. It doesn't seem like we're rewarded much for getting everything done, anyway. My apologies, reader. I'm scrapping for any excuse to displace my thoughts.

This generation has been pushed harder than any in history. I'm not the first to say that. We aren't the first generation to say that. We won't be the last. It's not because we're delusional, or because we're ungrateful. It's because the expectations for our youth continue to increase, despite performance remaining the same in many cases. For example, in my parent's generation, attending university wasn't a requirement to lead a stable life. In their parent's generation, university was a foreign concept for many. For us, we're practically required to attend some form of higher education, or else we'll be doomed to a decade of poverty from which we might not recover.

Even when all goes according to plan, our lives are more difficult than those of the past. In searching for new jobs, we're asked for experience we never get the opportunity to attain. Eventually, given this pattern, a bachelor's degree will be meaningless. Graduate study will be the expectation, and our children's lives will be that much more difficult. It isn't obvious on the surface, but I believe whatever force conducting this wind is pushing us toward natural selection. Perhaps you see that as a hasty conclusion, reader, but I'm speaking from the story we've written thus far. It might take centuries, but one day, the highest of scholars will be the only ones left standing. I don't think it's fair, but I think it will happen.

In any event, my point stands that standards have only increased over time. Perhaps it's because we're seen as spoiled; a majority of our generation isn't faced with physical hardship, so the government believes we should dedicate our lives to school. That's the case from the time we're, what, three or four years old? I pray you do not misinterpret my meaning, reader. Education is extremely important; from the little philosophy I know, I'd say it's an essential foundation of society. But if we continue to push children to their limits in an educational system that doesn't allow much room for error, the consequences will be felt.

Allow me to step down from my soapbox for a moment. Perhaps I'll share more of my thoughts on that educational system at a later time. I can only hope that someone with the power to make change agrees with me.

As you've likely said to yourself by now, yes, I got lucky in that system. Incredibly lucky. I don't know what I would've done had I not been immediately picked up as a journalist. For all the animosity I feel toward my job some days, I must admit that it saved me financially. To be completely honest, journalism may be all that I accomplish with the way my life is going. I haven't written any fiction in months. These days, it seems I only have shallow ideas for stories, and never any motivation to open up a new text document. Oh, how I wish I were an artist. I would be able to simply pour paint on a canvas, and it would serve as a starting point. All my thoughts could feed off that one color, whichever I chose. The blinking cursor at the top of my page provides me no such compassion. If I were an artist, I would be saved from this endless cycle of perfectionism I try to maintain with my writing. I envy Silver in that sense. Actually, I envy Silver in many ways.

Forgive me, reader, for I am about to embody everything I previously said was wrong about the creator's curse. I envy Silver because he has already made more of a creative impact on this world than I could ever dream of. He's had several of his works displayed in contemporary art galleries. Of course, he's always done that, but such feats were meaningless back home. New York is a different story. If your art is displayed in New York, it's because you are at the top of the talent pool at that time. Even if I were to publish a novel one day, it's highly unlikely that I become a bestseller. It's a nice thought, but unrealistic. Silver has already achieved the seemingly impossible.

Often times, I wish I were an artist. In my mind - and this is only in my biased, self-loathing opinion, mind you - art is objectively a better talent than writing. I'm not sure what I mean by "better"; perhaps art is more interesting, or more widely appreciated, or more beautiful. I would trade my current level of talent in writing for a similar level of talent in art. I would make that trade any day. It's hard for me to explain, but I've felt that way for quite a while, and it feels good to get it off my chest. There is no such thing as objectively "great" writing. Great writing is often marred by critics who say that a piece relies too heavily on description, or is far too dense. However, art can be objectively great. Even if the Mona Lisa is not to one's tastes, it is worthy of praise simply because of the technical skill used to create it. Art can be called "great" quite readily, whereas writing must fit the reader's narrow tastes. Those who read Dickens and despise his descriptions will never call him a great writer. Those who do not understand Picasso's shapes and distortions will still appreciate his work as "great", if only because his style is an interesting deviation from the norm. I wish to be great at my trade, reader. I think you see my dilemma.

Art is appreciated at a glance, in passing, and does not require thought. Writing is the exact opposite. Art provides a convenience that writing cannot, but art can be just as complex when need be. These are truths that will never change. I'm willing to bet that even you, reader, would rather read this stream of consciousness in the form of a comic. Art is a better talent than writing.

Given all of that, Silver has more talent now than I ever will. So yes, I must admit there is a bit of jealousy there. I want to produce content for people to enjoy, and I wish to do so on a large scale. I'm afraid I will never get that opportunity with writing fiction, unless I get lucky in a life-changing way for a second time. And make no mistake reader, I've tried art before. I'm useless at it. I don't possess the spatial imagination to produce beautiful works. I didn't need my sketches to be torn apart all those years ago to know that.

I feel my insides shift as the subway suddenly comes to my stop. I throw my bag over my shoulder, and begin the two-block trek back to my apartment. On another day, I might have taken my time and enjoyed a nice coffee after work. Not today. Casting my long-standing thoughts into words is quite the numbing experience.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey guys. I'm really sorry, but I'm probably gonna have to discontinue this fic too. It was a nice thought to re-tell a story from a different point of view, but I've just lost all motivation on it. As I've mentioned before, a lot of stuff has happened since I started writing this, and things have only gotten worse since then.**

 **When I wrote All My Colors, I was so full of life, and dreams, and hope. I wanted to share the world through my eyes, because I felt like my viewpoint could really help people. But now, I've been so down on myself for so long, my dreams have been crushed over and over again, and I simply don't see life the same way anymore. Honestly, with this format of a story, I feel like I'd only bring everyone down to my level by sharing my most raw thoughts these days.**

 **I don't want to quit writing, or drawing, or creating, but I feel so incredibly worthless. So much that it's hard for me to get up most days, let alone motivate myself to work on anything. I once dreamed of publishing my own novel, but I question now whether I'm good enough for that. My confidence has been completely shattered, and I'm simply defeated. Even with the few compliments on my work I get, I feel like they're all just pity, because that's how my brain twists it.**

 **I'm not sure if I'll completely delete this story yet, because who knows, maybe I'll feel better one day. But until then, I'm going to try to drag myself to work on other things.**

 **As always, thanks for reading.**

 **\- Dark**


End file.
